


the betterment of health

by Anonymous



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bondage, Breeding Kink, Come Inflation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Doctor/Patient, Drugged Sex, Drunk Sex, Fantastic Homophobia, Fantastic Sexism, Institutionalized Sexual Assault, Knotting, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Kink, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Object Insertion, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Sloppy Seconds, Vaginal Plug, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22596955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Mr. Collins unexpectedly enters estrus but refuses the attentions of an alpha. Dr. Goodsir offers a solution.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Dr Stephen S. Stanley, Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72
Collections: Anonymous





	the betterment of health

It was always easiest when it was him.

It was far from _comfortable,_ as Goodsir had really only ever _endured_ his businesslike mating sessions with Stanley, but it was easier in comparison to handing another omega or the occasional beta in the beginning stage of his own heat a glass of the tincture which Goodsir himself so loathed and loved, and then being required to smile kindly and encourage this seaman, one of a fateful many, to swallow it down and then suffer the attentions of the next alpha on the rut list while thus rendered incapacitated; it always left Goodsir, himself high enough on the ladder to have an appointed alpha for his heats rather than be offered on rotation, aching with guilt.

The dregs of his own dose and the more humbling bodily ache gained from a good solid knotting was extremely preferable, and Goodsir understood all too well the allure of the tincture and the thirst with which it was often received, even if he could only dispense it to others with reluctance. He'd likewise found sessions to be easier with the heat tincture. There was less guilt to be borne upon one's own conscience; one was relieved of blaming oneself.

Goodsir, however, could never quite convince himself to feel gratitude for the manner in which his society treated him. Sometimes he tried. His _society_ certainly tried driving the point home within him at every opportunity, and if all were as natural as they claimed it was, perhaps Goodsir would not be harboring such a smoldering resentment. Perhaps it was not he who was broken.

But it was not acceptable to turn blame in this direction, either; the hierarchy of the three designated subsexes was supposedly, scientifically, without reproach, and this had been the case since before the time of Hippocrates. To struggle against this alone was a futile and draining effort.

The Inuk Tribe, according to Dr. MacDonald, had a different way of going about it: more egalitarian, and more accepting of homosexual marriages even between the same subsexes, and they commonly engaged in heterosexual spouse swapping outside the covenant of marriage. Many so-called “uncivilized” peoples had similarly “backwards” views which Goodsir privately admired, this admiration stoking the intransigent flame of resentment born of his cyclical heat.

The only thing Goodsir can find to be grateful about is that right now it is his own heat which he experiences. Everything else is difficult, but at the very least it being him means it is not, at this moment, someone else, while Goodsir stands by in bitter helplessness and blames himself to hell as he so should.

Stanley's knot pops, a sudden expansion and pressure, and his cock ejaculates deep inside of Goodsir's cunt. Stanley briefly stutters the words he's speaking to their present patient, his hands digging in against Goodsir's waist, yanking Goodsir back against himself so as to pierce his prick as far as possible into the docile omega meekly presenting on the table before him.

Goodsir feels the gush of seminal heat inside of himself as Stanley unloads. His knees quake, the insides of his thighs dripping white with the semen accumulated from all their prior copulation: that which had been deposited into him then fucked out of him as soon as Stanley's knot had eased enough for the alpha to begin moving again; by now Goodsir is distantly thankful for the sturdiness of the sickbay furniture.

Homosexual mating was always considered something of a stand-in for heterosexual breeding, but it was common practice, and in the Navy was a customary relief measure purported to encourage a positive outlook throughout the ranks; prohibiting alpha seamen from regular relief was, in contrast, considered a sure way to stoke aggression. The excuses always supported the accepted norms.

It was held as a canon truth that an unmarried alpha woman was in want of an alpha man to impregnate her, and an unmarried omega man, in want of an omega woman to impregnate. Though many settled for a less-than-optimal match when it came to marriage, and homosexual activity between heterosubsex partners was common, it was unacceptable that a he-omega should lie with he-omega, or she-alpha with she-alpha, or _etc._ This was in medical circles often referred to as “true homosexuality,” and was, most inexplicably, to be shunned.

“Is Dr. Goodsir all right, sir?” Morfin asks. He is another omega, like himself, and asks with actual compassion and concern.

Goodsir is most assuredly not all right. The pleasant haze of the heat tincture has given way to inevitable ruminations and a terror of a headache. His entire skin is fitted so tightly over his muscle he can feel his blood crawling. His breath labors, his sweat drips, and vile humors roil heavy and silken in his guts. Stanley has just knotted and is coming in him for the umpteenth time and he cannot escape it.

“That's sweet of you, Morfin,” Goodsir slurs, without opening his eyes, and reaching out with his hand, intending to pat Morfin's hand, or his shoulder if possible, but he does not touch Morfin at all. He is too far away. Goodsir's arm drops, and he lets it hang.

“I apologize,” says Dr. Stanley. “It appears Mr. Goodsir has only alarmed you further.”

“Oh, no, sir, not at all; I know how it gets some of the time.”

“Of course,” says Stanley, in a sympathetic tone which means he doesn't understand and is trying to hide it.

A tentative, work-roughened hand finds Goodsir's in support, and Goodsir for a moment views Morfin, not as a brother omega, but a forbidden omega husband, reaching back to Goodsir in a coded token of romantic gallantry. He hides his face against the smooth grain of the tabletop and squeezes Morfin's hand hard before he must let the seaman go.

Stanley's knot eventually shrinks, prick slipping from Goodsir as Stanley steps away, his leavings trickling hot as molten candle wax from Goodsir's well-ridden pussy, streaking down Goodsir's skin, around the already semen-encrusted backs of his thighs. Goodsir does not straighten from the table but remains in patient lordosis. He accepts the plug which Stanley pushes into his sopping vagina, his tired muscles resisting feebly before relenting and swallowing the plug deep to lodge against his cervix, an inanimate alien object far colder and harder than a human knot keeping his walls pried apart. There's a delicate chain hanging from the plug, lightly weighted to swing between the thighs while standing, to make the medical device easy to remove again later.

The achievement of a copulatory tie and the retention of semen was very important, as it was taught that administration of this treatment facilitated the primary estrus phase of the estrous cycle; the more seeded, the easier the heat supposedly was on the body. Goodsir has not noticed any difference in the duration or intensity of his own heats since being forced into the drugged copulation regimen versus when he'd spent his heats alone and clear-headed, but there is also no way for him to know whether he is an outlier.

Goodsir spreads his legs as Stanley wipes him clean with a hot, damp towel, straightening from the table only upon command. His head rushes, the sickbay spinning, and he closes his eyes, clenching around the plug.

He is bathed and helped into his trousers, then down the halls and into his quarters, where he kicks them off again. He's so exhausted that he lets out a whiny growl of complaint beneath his breath when Stanley prevents him from falling face-first into bed, and Stanley scoffs at him but allows it, ignoring Goodsir's attitude in favor of wrangling him into his nightshirt, sitting Goodsir on his bunk and working the fresh shirt down over Goodsir's head with his arms made to be held up, Goodsir made to be passive for just a little longer as he is dressed and tucked away by a responsible Stanley into bed, and he falls asleep as soon as his head hits his pillow.

Goodsir awakens at a cry raised during the dog watch.

Mr. Collins has gone into season.

He was caught trying to go outside into the cold, raving about being too warm, about just needing a little walk to cool down. Him being a he-beta whose breeding cycle sometimes bore more of a resemblance to that of a woman's or an omega male's than an alpha male's, his heats were irregular, and he had not experienced one since prior to the unfortunate death of Mr. Orren.

“Intoxication and the classic hysteria of the he-beta,” Stanley diagnoses. “That is what this man suffers from. A vigorous mating session and a good night's rest is all the cure he requires.”

Collins sways on the sickbay table. The drunkenness is evident, his eyes glazed beneath his dark curls and his responses sluggish and stupid, but the high red flush in his cheeks and the dilated pupils turning his eyes into deep black pools are no doubt also due to the symptoms of the poor he-beta's estrus, and just as evident is Collins' fear. Their patient is so terribly afraid.

“Please, I don't want to,” he says. “This wasn't supposed to happen. I was taking my drops, Doctors, this shouldn't fucking _be.”_

“Freezing and thawing can alter the potency of some medicines,” Goodsir explains to Collins gently, but Stanley overrides him.

“The he-beta who suffers an hysteria will experience relapses until he is too old to be bred. We all contain within us both fertile and virile systems, but it is only the irregular he-beta whose reproductive organs are functionally virile yet whose body still fights to mimic the fertility of the he-omega. In your medical record it is written that you've had heats before, and all of this is to say that at the present moment, Mr. Collins, you reek... _not_ of rut. Biology will always out.”

This is true, insofar as fertile and virile systems existing in the anatomy of all subsexes. Despite this, he-betas are the only subsexual designation to consistently exhibit varying degrees of fertility, similar to she-betas and their occasional virility. Since around half of he-betas experience heat symptoms to some extent, and given that there have even been confirmed cases of viable pregnancy in the male beta, Collins is irregular only in the unscheduled sense; otherwise all betas might be considered “irregular,” being as they were individuals caught anywhere in the middle of what Goodsir suspects to be a continuous biological spectrum which has been artificially divided into the three discrete categories of alpha, beta, and omega.

Mr. Collins' glazed black eyes are gleaming with tears, his brow fierce as he stares at the floor, but he keeps his temper even inebriated, his voice gruff but civil. “I'll not let any alpha here fuck me, sir.”

“Would... would there be an alpha on _Terror,_ to whom you would be amenable?” asks Goodsir, hoping to break the tension.

Collins shakes his head in stubborn silence.

Stanley throws up his hands. “Then what is there to be done for it, Mr. Collins?”

“You could mate me,” Goodsir says. Stanley and Collins both turn to him, and he flushes, feeling exposed despite the length and shapelessness of his white nightshirt. “I am still in the breeding phase of my own estrous cycle, sir. It would only be beneficial for me to receive more semen, and as Mr. Collins is not an omega, and his heat false, surely... surely any sex of itself would suffice as cure, so long as it were not with a fellow beta?”

“And you're volunteering yourself for his use?” Stanley asks Goodsir with skepticism, knowing him to be habitually unenthusiastic about his own participation in these activities, and not because he has any medical or professional objections. Some patients, especially those of higher rank and finer breeding, officers whose matings were conducted in the privacy of their quarters or at the very least officer's country, have precisely such arrangements with each other.

“Is that possible, Doctors?” Collins asks before Goodsir can do more than nod in answer, looking up. For such a large man he has hunched himself very small, but with this hope he perks up a little, broad shoulders unfolding slightly. He's stripped to the waist, his barrel chest as red as his cheeks underneath his thick hair, and Goodsir is struck by how big he actually is. How heartbreakingly shy and soft his expression.

“Very possible, Mr. Collins,” Goodsir says, even though, once he has ensured their patient's having been reassured, he must himself look away.

“Before... anything,” says Collins, “may I have the heat cure?”

“Of course,” Stanley says. “It's only procedure.”

Goodsir is ridded of his shirt and plug and bent nude over the table, another dose of the tincture a warm glow in his veins, a numbness in his mind as Collins drops trou and mounts him with Stanley observing.

For a moment Goodsir thinks he'll have to reach behind himself to align the patient's penis with his opening, as Collins' dose of the heat cure, on top of his prior panicky consumption of alcohol, makes him clumsy. The beta's cock jabs between Goodsir's thighs, parting the folds of Goodsir's pussy so that his dripping wetness smears the prodigious length of Collins' rod and Goodsir almost chokes at its incredible thickness, and then Collins tries again and his huge prick starts pressing into Goodsir without the slightest hindrance.

Goodsir is so wet that he'd be embarrassed were Collins himself not groaning at how eagerly Goodsir's slick cunt takes Collins' hot cock, his coarse but gentle hands running all over Goodsir's back and arms as he feels Goodsir's cunt engulfing him for the first time. “Oh, sir,” he says, bottoming out balls-deep inside of the omega, his body slowly collapsing atop Goodsir's. “Oh, Dr. Goodsir, you feel so good.”

Collins is larger than Stanley in the vulgar respect, and perhaps bulkier overall, if not as tall. He's already hard, and his knot is already swelling bigger than Goodsir's fist and will only expand more.

“So _good,”_ Collins moans, thrusting at first gently, but the gentleness of his thrusts is soon much rougher than that of his hands, and even his grip on Goodsir's body roughens as he forgets all but his own pleasure. His conscious mind, and therefore all consideration for Goodsir as anything other than a tight, wet hole for him to fuck his dick into, is fading under the influence of the tincture.

“I trust you can take it from here,” says Stanley, as Collins begins doing his best to fuck Goodsir into the table, and he leaves them, most likely slipping back into bed for as long as he can get away with.

It does not matter for them to be left unsupervised, for, should something go wrong, there is always someone within earshot.

The bulbis glandis at the radix of the patient's organ is inflating, stretching Goodsir's vaginal opening with every thrust. His speed also increases rapidly, his weight great, the man himself only barely conscious as he drools into Goodsir's hair and thrusts his hips without predictable aim so that his cock drills every which way within Goodsir's pussy. Collins nuzzles him, rubs the scent-drenched whiskers on his cheeks over Goodsir's hair, the nape of his neck, the scrape of his teeth and the mouthwatering smell he's emitting making Goodsir shiver. Those olfactory notes within the bouquet of the beta which most resemble the sexual arousal of “alpha” and therefore “rut” are lost within the powerful “heat” haze of the estrus and its intensification of sexual pheromones associated with fertility, but Goodsir is no less affected. His body does not know “mating” from “breeding,” nor does it care, and Collins smells good.

 _“Breed you,”_ Collins growls, and Goodsir cries out as his own prick suddenly shoots untouched, ropes of his cum splattering to the floor and probably to the underside of the table, the orgasm forcing the jism from him in draining throbs and his pussy tightening around Collins' gigantic prick. Collins fucks him through it, Goodsir's juices making the way slicker, and with Stanley's cum having been kept warm inside of Goodsir it is turning out to be a very sloppy, frothy, noisy fuck.

Collins is grunting and moaning loudly, the considerable, muscular weight of him increasing upon Goodsir as his legs curl off the deck, hands grabbing the edge of the table to either side of Goodsir's head as he pulls himself up and lifts his arse high before driving his cock back in, his hefty balls slapping Goodsir's pussy as the stud gains the leverage to wantonly rail his bitch even harder.

Goodsir feels small and delicate under him, his hole stuffed, Collins so huge it proves uncomfortable. There's pressure: the knot, of course, it certainly being one of those beta specimens which rivals that of any alpha, and a pain which is Collins' member punching against his cervix, and the heaviness and the heat of being sown.

Sown to bursting, practically, as the knot which Collins plows into Goodsir with a chesty roar expands so that it cannot be taken out and his bounteous fountain of seed pours directly into Goodsir's womb. The pressure in Goodsir's abdomen intensifies a bit, his uterus having already been full, and Goodsir breathes more quickly, and must force himself to breathe slower, to relax and receive.

Collins' lusty ejaculation fades to a sigh and he falls fully slack on top of Goodsir; he's fallen unconscious, in fact. His hard prick, the knot firmly lodged in the grip of Goodsir's cunt, still spurts, his balls working to empty themselves, hips moving as if to thrust again far before he regains any of his other faculties.

Goodsir lies there and struggles to fill his lungs underneath the patient as his own leaking essences ooze out of him, as he grows fatter with thick seed from Collins, and as Collins unconsciously grinds himself inside of Goodsir to inject every drop of his cum as deeply into Goodsir as he can, only incidentally rubbing Goodsir's knotted prick against the table.

“You all right?” Collins asks Goodsir once he's come back to himself enough for words, fumbling under them and cupping Goodsir's knot with his big warm hand, and Goodsir nods, moaning softly as he wriggles into Collins' hand on his prick. He twists as much as he can to let Collins sleepily snuffle his throat.

There's no break; Collins doesn't dismount when his knot goes down enough to untie but simply starts fucking again, his cock never fully leaving Goodsir's pussy, the obscene squelch of the knot plunging into Goodsir's cunt so lewdly loud that Goodsir overhears someone remark upon it.

Now and then people filter into the sickbay. Most leave when they see that Stanley is absent and Goodsir preoccupied. Some linger, waiting and watching. Laughing at Collins for snarling in mindless possessiveness at their interest even as his cock tightly locks inside his bitch.

Goodsir isn't in any fit state of mind to treat prospective patients unless those patients were also to mate Goodsir for the betterment of their health. He's grateful for Collins' size, as well as for his protectiveness, as he somewhat shields Goodsir from the men's view. A muscular bicep cutting Goodsir's own view of the sickbay short, and the rumbling growl in Collins' huge chest drowning the laughter.

Stanley returns after they've moved off the table. Collins is knotting Goodsir for a third time, the two of them fornicating on the floor like dogs. Goodsir raises his head to watch the doctor, but Collins seems oblivious, resting hunched over on Goodsir and panting with his mouth open against Goodsir's shoulder, his tongue licking the sweat from Goodsir's skin, his hips jerking back and forth despite the knot which ties them as one. It is all that Goodsir can do to keep himself up on his hands and knees. His stomach hangs heavy with cum beneath him, and though it always feels more drastic than it truly looks, and looks far worse than it is, Goodsir doubts his ability to take more.

“Need I have set up the mating bench?” Stanley asks irritably, already going to get it for them.

“Sir,” Collins manages in acknowledgment, but that is all.

The cramp of so much liquid sits against Goodsir's stomach and makes him feel as full as though he'd gorged a decadent meal. Since both he and his patient have missed their breakfast it's been so many hours since an actual meal that the tincture is still strong in him, and he sways, dizzy, with Collins' giant dick stretching his cunt to its limits. And still he produces such a surplus of liquid that there is a puddle of his excretions on the deck between his knees, his own slick lubricating him so that he can just barely accommodate the sheer mass of Henry Collins' knotted member with something other than agony.

Every little rocking motion of Collins' makes Goodsir whimper. The man's cock inside of him is almost overwhelming, almost splitting. He's come four times on it. The most recent still shakes him, his knot pulsing against the air, his prick squirting with every twitch. The semen mingles with his other fluids on the dark deck.

Stanley makes a faintly disgusted sound. “Come along,” he says, and ushers Goodsir into dragging the mounted Collins and himself over to the bench.

Collins' knot gives and his prick slips from Goodsir in a rush of liquid, momentarily leaving the beta behind on his knees with his prick exposed. The tremendous organ bobs semi-erect and wet between his thick thighs, veins standing out across the bulbis glandis, and it's shockingly red, the glans dark purple and still expelling a generous white pearl from its slit. Goodsir doesn't know how it is possible that such a monstrous appendage could even _fit_ into him.

He looks away and squeezes to keep as much semen inside of himself as he can so that Stanley will not rebuke him for wasting any of it as he crawls onto the bench of padded leather and lets it take his weight with a noise of gratitude, slumping his upper body down and stretching out his arms lengthwise to stick his hands into the open cuffs. These, too, are leather, and usually for omegas who put up an unbecoming resistance. Stanley gets the hint and straps Goodsir's wrists and ankles into the restraints, Goodsir's body bent and fastened into place over the bench like just another part of it, just an attachable fuckhole, and Goodsir thanks him.

Perhaps it is because of this that Stanley stays, and furthermore turns Goodsir's face to press it into the rich, comforting scent of the alpha's groin. In Goodsir's present state the pheromones are as intoxicating as the alcoholic heat cure, even with Stanley unexcited; against Goodsir's cheek Stanley's cock is soft through his trousers. As if from far away he hears Stanley instruct Collins as to how Goodsir prefers it.

Obediently, Collins mounts Goodsir, and pounds into his sore little cunt.

With Goodsir supported by the bench Collins is again able to put all of his crushing weight onto Goodsir, Collins' knees lifting, his testicles bouncing, and he comes in short order with his huge, hairy thighs slammed up against Goodsir's. Goodsir groans, tears pricking at his eyes as even more seed swells his packed womb, and Stanley says, “You've done very well, Mr. Goodsir. And you are very welcome.”


End file.
